Estelle

“Milord?”

I dropped the papers to my desk and let my head follow, sighing at the loud thunk as it hit the cool wood.

“Lord Estelle?”

I liked that sound. The gentle thudding of my brains against the desk. I lifted my head back up and slammed it down again.

“Please, Estelle.”

THUD. THUD. THUNK. Heh. THUDNK.

“DAMMIT, ESTELLE, STOP IT!”

I ceased my raucous activity and turned to smile innocently at my advisor. He frowned that old-man frown that he tormented me with, where his face gets all liney and gross. I scowled back, trying to mirror the hideousness of his current state of being.

“Lord Estelle, may I ask what you are doing?”

I raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Why, I am trying to be more like you, Frederick. You’re expressions are fascinating.”

He waved a dismissive hand, closing his eyes as he always did when he was scavenging for extra patience. “Before that.”

“I believe that I was hitting my head against my desk. Do you need spectacles, Fred? I always knew that you needed spectacles.”

“May I ask why you were hitting your head against your desk?” said Frederick.

I raised my other eyebrow so that the other wasn’t lonely anymore. “I liked the sound.”

He stared at me for a moment before Hming and writing something down on that clipboard he always carries around with him. I’m not sure what he does with the thing, but I have never seen him without it. Even when he goes to the privy, or horse-riding, he has it with him. (I would know, for I am always waiting for the chance to snatch it and see what he writes all day.)

“So, Lord Estelle, would you like to hear the schedule for today?”

I blinked and dropped my eyebrows so that I could raise them again. My hand shoved my pencil into my mouth so that I could chew on it. “Well, I fuppove I haben’t phot a thoice adyway, tho fire ophhh!”

“Pardon?”

“I said,” I began lazily, dragging my hand and it’s weapon away from my tongue. “’Well, I suppose I haven’t got a choice anyway, so fire off!’”

“Ah,” my advisor mumbled as I put the pencil back into my mouth. “You’ve breakfast with the princess Isabelle, archery with the king’s sixth cousin, lunch with Lady Sara and her seven…”

Oh, what an exciting life I lead. Dinner here, an appearance there, you’re invited here but cannot go because you must be there… Over and over again. If I could, I would gnaw my own arm off to escape the grasp of such a heinous route, but they would only take the other, and then a leg and the other leg and then my arse and my torso and my head, until all I have left is my poor neck that would be whisked away and placed in some fancy museum of anatomy…

Or something like that.

“--ESTELLE! Good gods, you have the attention span of a squirrel!”

“I prefer the attention span of a monkey, Frederick. Squirrels are too violent.”

Fred scoffed, throwing his hands through the air as if he were covered with spiders or something of the sort. “And you’re not?!”

“Squirrels are sadists. I am but a poor, innocent boy who has such a boring life that I must seek out various ways to amuse myself without disappointing someone or another. “

“Like killing brain cells because you like the sound.”

I grinned, pointing a subjective finger at Fred and snorting. “Exactly.”

“So,” the princess Isabelle pursed her lips, looking more of an old lady than her seventy year old mother. “How have you been, Estelle?”

She tried so hard to seem polite, poor girl.

“Bored, angsty… the usual.”

She remained, like the pro that she was, only shocked for a moment before laughing that high pitched laugh of hers. It reminded me of nails screeching along glass. You know--KREEIIIIIIIIKKKCHHH.

“My, Estelle, you’re still as amusing as I remembered you.”

“And you are as crisp.”

I watched as she debated for a moment whether to take that as a compliment or an insult. I could almost see the wheels turning in her head as she processed my words and, finally, decided that she might as well make herself feel better and smile and laugh and thank me.

A breeze murmured by, twirling the thin grey and brown hair on her fancy little head. You know, I was almost beginning to like her, with those sad, jaded green eyes that looked at me as if I were a breath of fresh air. It wasn’t her fault that she had been born to the royal family, where dinners and balls and money were all you ever heard about. In fact, I bet she would have been a nice old cat lady, had she had the chance.

And… then she dropped the bomb.

“You know, my niece will be visiting us from Ron for a year or so. And I just thought that I had to introduce you two,”--note how she stressed Rooooonnnn so intensely. Ron is infamous for its tall, thin, beautiful people, as if that made all the difference. Ron, dear, ROOOONNNNNNN--“So would you find the time to stop by sometime next week? She’s such a pretty young girl--I think you‘d make such a charming pair.”

Shudder. “Well, I’ll have to see what I can do, won’t I?”

She smiled and nodded, revealing crow-feet for the first time in the corner of her eyes. “So, anyways…”

The mirror stood before me like a drooling monster, gallant and prepared to eat me. Wow, how long had it been? Two years? Three?

I hated looking at myself. I looked like my father, from head to toe. My hair hung loose and stubborn, unable to slick back no matter how much gunk I used. It was a strange brown, going from almost black to a caramel. Growing lighter the closer to the ends you got, I was often eyed in that contradicting eye thing the senior lords and ladies like to practice. Because, heaven forbid a respectable aristocrat as myself dyed my hair!

My eyes were even more bewildering--and even more attention-catching--in their intense, intimidating shades--one a light purple, the other a deep green. No one understood how that had happened, much less wanted to. No one liked me much at social gatherings, because I stood out. You weren’t supposed to stick out in politics--you were supposed to blend perfectly in, with the exception of being even more cliché than the rest. I remember my mom holding me, staring into my eyes for hours, trying to figure out if her son was a demon, a mutant, or just plain weird.

Yep, I’m a demon. Heh. Not really.

My skin was clear and creamy, disconcertingly… peaceful, I guess. It was almost seemed to glow a golden color, but when I looked more closely it was still flat--people don’t glow, silly Estelle. My build was naturally muscular and manly, but bore such a thin waist and long legs that I could pass for a Ronian. Because, frankly, I was tall. I’m not sure how tall, because I would never dare to actually measure myself--what if I ended up the same height as my father? That would be hell. Six foot something, or seven, or whatever. Insert goose-bumps here.

I hated all the stares my appearance attracted. I hated all the people fingering my arms and staring into my eyes and touching my hair. I hated it. The only thing that would shut them up was telling who gave me my genetics--Lord Marcalis, oh of course!

He had been known for his strange, capturing appearance. Well, that, and being the biggest womanizer in the history of history and whatever came before that. I’ll bet you that almost all of the children in Frining that had no father are related to me.

He was also so… lonely. I think that’s why I insist on differentiating myself and him. He had been born an unhappy person, born solemn and cold and sad. I didn’t want to feel isolated. I didn’t want to feel different.

And yet, simply by having these feelings, I was.

When I was a little boy, I used to draw pictures of a courtyard with flowers and sunshine and big wigs with smiling, tight-lipped people. And then there was a wall, leading to the real world--the one where people starved, and were beaten, and orphaned, and sat around staring into the courtyard with sad, somber faces.

My tutors didn’t understand it. It scared them. All of the other boys were drawing Mommy and Daddy and all the little servant children that I play with and blackmail. Hardy har har. So why didn’t I draw that stuff? Why didn’t I discuss the hardships of being a young boy whose maids never seem to get it through their thick skulls to cut the friggin’ crust off?!

Because I was the kid that would let the young serving girls and boys sleep in my bed while I slept on the floor.

I had seen their living conditions. The rags, the sweaty, crowded halls. Mother called them servants--good god, they were slaves. They had no where else to turn to, had been born into captivity, or had been abandoned by their parents and needed food and clothing and shelter. I gave them my milk and cookies and took them horse riding with me, using my super mega awesome tantrum talents to convince Frederick. They were my friends, my one and only companions through a secluded life. I was kind to them and, in return, they would willingly give their lives for me.